by John Maley
Back at the flat Denise made dinner. They sat almost in silence at the table, in candlelight; almost in silence because now and then Caroline made an appreciative noise about the food and also because in the background were the poignant and plaintive tones of kd. Denise enjoyed these moments of togetherness, when they didn’t have to speak; they could just share a meal or a song or a movie together.
Later, as Caroline did the washing up, they talked about the impending Ellen episode.
‘Laura Dern’s in it,’ said Denise.
‘Laura who?’ asked Caroline.
‘Laura Dern. She was in Blue Velvet. And Wild At Heart. She was great in Wild At Heart. Her and Nicholas Cage were star-crossed lovers?’
‘I don’t think I saw that.’
‘How about Jurassic Park? You must’ve seen that?’
‘Oh right. Aye, I know who ye mean.’ Caroline washed the soapsuds off the dinner plates.
‘So is she one of the girls?’ Caroline would always say ‘one of the girls’. It pissed Denise off.
‘Naw, I don’t think she is. But she’s playin’ a lezzie tonight.’
‘I heard Oprah’s in it.’
‘Oprah?’
‘Oprah Winfrey. She’s in it tonight.’
‘Playing herself?’
‘Naw, she’s playing Ellen’s therapist.’
Denise began drying the dishes.
‘I didnae know Oprah acted.’
‘She was in The Color Purple.’
‘Wasn’t that Whoopi Goldberg?’
‘Oprah was in it too.’
‘And Demi Moore.’ Denise put down her dishtowel.
‘Demi Moore was in The Color Purple?’
‘Naw,’ Caroline laughed, ‘she’s in Ellen. Tonight.’
Denise put the dishes away and then put her arms around Caroline.
‘It’s going to be quite a night.’
They set out the snacks on the coffee table. There were tortilla chips, crisps and grapes, all in bowls, and a box of chocolates. Two bottles of wine and a couple of glasses stood in the middle of the table.
‘We’ll never eat this stuff,’ said Caroline.
‘You’ll feel peckish later. It’s on quite late,’ Denise assured her. She began looking for a videotape they could tape over. She found one that had some Star Trek episodes on it. Denise was a Trekkie but was willing to make the sacrifice so that she could tape the coming out night.
‘We don’t have to tape it,’ said Caroline. ‘After all, we’re watchin’ it.’
‘I want to tape it,’ replied Denise. ‘For posterity.’
Ellen was at the Channel Four Coming Out Party. She was guest of honour. There had been rumours that she would be there, but Caroline and Denise had thought she’d probably give it a miss and maybe send a taped message. But she was there, looking lovely.
‘I think she’s adorable,’ gushed Denise.
‘She’s okay,’ added Caroline, ‘for her age.’
First on the evening’s itinerary was a documentary called The Real Ellen Story, which was all about the run up to the now infamous lesbian episode and the repercussions for the show and its star in the States. It seemed that the shite had hit the fan after the initial euphoria about the ‘outing’ episode. The TV company hadn’t properly promoted the series and ratings had dropped. Execs and critics alike had expressed concern that the show was ‘too gay’ and had become a weekly trailer for lesbianism. Denise shook her head, exasperated.
‘What is it about heterosexuals?’ she asked aloud. ‘Tell them you’re a lesbian and that’s all they can think about. You stop being a person and become a dirty word to them.’
Caroline nodded and poured them some wine. The documentary also touched on Ellen’s personal life, her new-found love with Anne Heche.
‘It won’t last,’ said Caroline.
‘Showbiz marriages are a fuckin’ joke.’ Denise knew Caroline was only saying this because she had the hots for Heche. Towards the end of the documentary Ellen was shown making an emotional speech to the assembled cast and crew of the show, on the last day of the shooting. They had been through a lot together and Ellen paid a tearful tribute to them. Denise and Caroline felt a bit tearful too.
At last the moment they had been waiting for arrived. Denise opened the second bottle of wine as the show began.
‘We’re drinking too fast,’ said Caroline.
‘Fuck it,’ said Denise. ‘Special occasion.’
Things seemed to move quickly in the show. It wasn’t long before Ellen and Laura Dern were sitting at opposite ends of a sofa in Laura’s hotel room. Denise thought about the first time she and Caroline had been alone together. She remembered the awkwardness and fear she felt that night. Caroline had met Denise’s brother on an accountancy course and he introduced her to Denise. He had been an unwitting Cupid. As soon as Denise and Caroline set eyes on each other something happened, something special. In the Ellen show, Ellen had initially denied she was gay and fled from Ms Dern’s hotel room. That wasn’t what happened with Denise and Caroline. They had gone back to Caroline’s flat, drank some wine and made love. Denise remembered trembling the first time she kissed Caroline.
Ellen consulted her therapist, Oprah, about her confused sexuality, and ended up announcing she was gay over an airport terminal microphone. Denise and Caroline applauded at that moment, exhilarated. Later, Ellen told her friends she was gay and they went to a lesbian coffee house where kd lang was waitressing and singing dykey protest songs. Denise, being a devoted Ellen fan, loved the episode, but was more inspired than moved. Caroline, on the other hand, wept openly. The more Denise tried to comfort her, the louder she sobbed. Denise had never heard anybody cry so loudly or so long. At one point she even asked Caroline if she should get a doctor. Caroline half-laughed, half-cried at that. Eventually Caroline calmed down and mumbled incoherent apologies. She blamed the drink.
‘There’s no need to apologise,’ said Denise. They switched off the TV and curled up on the couch together, listening to kd again.
‘This is the life,’ said Denise, dreamily. ‘Wine, women and song.’
Caroline spoke for a while about the Ellen show and the feelings it had stirred up in her. She said that for a long time she had hated the idea of being a lesbian. All through her twenties she had struggled with it, going out with guys and denying who she was to herself and others. Denise had never heard Caroline speak so openly about this. She listened quietly as Caroline went on. Caroline even told her about a guy she was engaged to. They used to have sex back at his place on a Friday or a Saturday night, usually once a week. Once, said Caroline, her head resting on Denise’s shoulder, had been more than enough. Eventually the guy met somebody new and Caroline pretended to be upset. People had been good about it. They said Mr Right would be along soon. Tell him not to fucking hurry, Caroline had thought to herself. A year later she had met Miss Right, Denise, and everything changed. But she hadn’t told her mother that her flatmate was her bedmate.
As the night wore on Denise felt the wine taking effect. She volunteered to make coffee and left Caroline snuggled up on the couch. She brought the coffee in on a tray and had to shove some of the crisps and tortilla chips out of the way to make room on the coffee table.
‘I’m going to have a serious hangover,’ said Denise.
‘Me too,’ muttered Caroline. ‘Thank fuck it’s Sunday.’
Caroline was brushing her teeth in the bathroom when Denise came in wearing her pyjamas. Caroline rinsed her mouth and inspected her teeth in the mirror. Denise put her arms around her. They both looked in the mirror.
‘I’m glad we’re gay,’ said Denise. She smiled at Caroline in the mirror. ‘Look at us. We’re Ellen’s degenerates.’
Caroline put her hands over Denise’s hands and leaned her head back slightly.
‘I’m going to tell my mother,’ she said, her voice rich with relief.
Strangers in the Night
One of the things about Del
ilah’s was you got passing trade. Strangers blowing through Glasgow, some of whom didn’t care what they said or who they fucked. There were three of them dotted along the bar one dull, dreich Wednesday night. The wind whipped up so hard one of the exit doors had to be jammed closed; it was banging open and shut so much. Eventually the wind died down but the rain kept coming. Jeannie the cleaner was going to have her work cut out for her in the morning, what with all the puddles and muddy footprints all over the cream-coloured tiled floor.
It was a quiet night, because of the weather and it being midweek. Two young dykes sat in a booth crying and kissing and crying again. An older man, kicking sixty, sat at a table reading a wank mag. Joanie had seen them all before. But the three faces at the bar were novel. There was a guy who looked about thirty, wee and squat, with tufts of hair sprouting out of his shirt at the neck. He was balding and his hair was cropped to fine fuzz on his round head. Further to his left was a young black guy. He wore a suit and Joanie saw the orange silk tie he had discarded peeking out of his jacket pocket. He was handsome, Joanie thought Sidney Poitier, and he exuded a quiet confidence. He had asked for a bottle of beer with a low, London accent. To his left was a man in his late thirties. He had strawberry blond hair and a ruddy face. He had the beginnings of a blond beard, obviously hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and Joanie saw hair like threads of gold flash across his jaw and chin. He wore a wedding ring and that always puzzled Joanie. You didn’t know whether a man had a husband or a wife. He had a sexy, mischievous look about him.
The taped music meant there were no silences to kill. The blond man sighed.
‘I don’t know about you guys,’ he said, wistfully, ‘but I could really go a fuck tonight.’
Joanie plunged two pint glasses in the washer and lifted them out again. The black guy drank from his bottle of beer and gave no reaction. Crop top shook his head, disapprovingly.
‘I don’t do sex,’ he said, decisively. ‘Not that up the bum stuff anyway. It’s dirty, dangerous, smelly and fuckin’ disgusting.’
Joanie dabbed at his hands with a dishtowel and smiled. ‘That’s what makes it fun,’ he joked. He was trying to lighten the tone a little.
‘Well I like to fuck,’ said the blond, nonplussed. ‘I’m old enough to remember what it was like before AIDS. I had my first fuck at seventeen. My boss at the garage where I worked took me back to his place and rode me bareback. When he shot his load I shot mine. Best feelin’ in the fuckin’ world.’ He lifted his glass and drank. Joanie saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall. He had spoken so frankly, with such a presumed intimacy, that Joanie felt a sudden closeness, like the guy had taken him into his confidence.
Behind the strangers, the two dykes were crying again, holding each other across the table by the sleeves. They weren’t making a noise but Joanie saw the wet faces, crumpled and earnest, glowing in the light.
The wee hirsute guy shook his head again. ‘If an arsehole was made for sex, you wouldnae have tae supply yer own juice. I mean look at this.’ He picked up a packet of lube that was in a wicker bowl on the bar. They always supplied free johnnies and lube in Delilah’s.
‘Look at this,’ said the celibate. ‘Why do you have tae juice up yer arsehole? I’ll tell ye why. It wisnae meant tae happen. Not up the bum. No fuckin’ way.’
Joanie was getting annoyed with the wee spoilsport. He stood opposite the guy, palms on the bar. ‘I have a lady friend who swears by lubrication. If she doesn’t use lube her fanny’s so dry sparks fly when her husband tries tae hump her.’ The black man let out a laugh then. He asked for another bottle of beer.
Joanie didn’t mind what somebody’s sexual preference was – consenting adults and all that – but he hated the dogmatists who tried to put people on a guilt trip. He felt there were enough people telling us simply being queer was dirty. He gave the black guy his beer and then his change. He looked thoughtful, and Joanie didn’t have to wait too long for his opinion.
‘If two people want to get together and explore their bodies, enjoy their bodies, then that’s fine by me.’
The blond smiled, looking straight ahead, fingers encompassing his pint glass.
‘So what turns you on?’ he asked, blue eyes blinking.
The black guy cocked his head to one side, as if he was imagining doing what he liked doing.
‘I like to hold a man’s ass,’ he began, ‘a buttock in each hand, hold his bare ass and slip my wet lips slowly over his boner. I like to suck.’
Joanie was serving the older guy who had finally cast aside the horny mag. Joanie knew his face, suspected he was married. The new guys were quiet, imagining the blow job. The older guy went back to his table and picked up the mag. It seemed everybody was horny tonight.
‘So you like sucking,’ said the blond. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves, forearms adorned with golden hair. Joanie wanted to brush his fingers over it. ‘I go for that too,’ said the blond. ‘I had a threesome once. In an Edinburgh hotel room. I had a cock up my arse and a cock in my mouth. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.’
The black guy smiled. ‘Now that’s what I call room service.’
Joanie was busy restocking the fridges. He didn’t know whether to laugh or leap over the bar into Blondie’s arms.
The short guy had a mean look on his face. ‘You’d think nobody had heard of AIDS around here,’ he growled.
Blondie picked up a condom packet from a basket at his end of the bar and skited it along to the prude. It whizzed along and landed at his elbow. Joanie looked up from the fridge, a cold hand adjusting his wig.
‘I suppose you’d have us all stuck in a monastery,’ he piped up.
‘Naw,’ said the wee killjoy. ‘Just thinkin’ with yer brains not yer balls.’
The rain was battering against the windows and Joanie wasn’t expecting much more in the way of custom. It was just as well, seeing as he was on his own tonight. The management kept hiring cute twenty-year-olds that lasted two weeks at the most, out of their pretty faces on Ecstasy. The blond started up again.
‘I use my brain,’ he retorted. ‘I use my brain all day. But sometimes when you get home at night after a long tedious day, sitting on a cock seems to be the only sane thing to do.’
Joanie stayed crouched with the fridge door open. He needed to cool down. After a deep breath he got up and stood at the bar.
‘Are ye gettin’ it regular?’ he asked Blondie, nodding at the gold ring.
The blond studied the ring, as if he were admiring his reflection in it.
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘This is just to piss the straights off. I had a boyfriend at the start of the year but this is September. You know how those things are.’
The black guy picked at the label on his bottle of beer. ‘So you’re shopping around?’ he asked. The blond nodded. The wee guy ordered another drink. The blond leaned forward and looked down the bar at him.
‘So what turns you on? I mean if fucking’s out of the question?’
The wee guy looked exasperated. ‘Use your imagination,’ he snarled.
The black guy let out a laugh again.
Sometimes it was on the quiet nights that you really got your eyes opened. Without the rumbling, mumbling beehive of a Friday or Saturday night to hide behind, brave and revealing words could be heard. Joanie had lounged at the bar like a lazy priest while married men had trashed their long-suffering wives, lesbian mothers had given him blow-by-blow accounts of their custody battles and titanic struggles against a homophobic justice system, rent boys had told their hard-luck stories, spurned lovers had bawled at the bar and bitchy queens stung each other with their waspish wit. Now it looked like Blondie had set a raunchy tone for the rainy evening.
‘My ex liked having his balls licked,’ said the black guy suddenly. Joanie poured himself a soda water and lime. The blond looked straight ahead, but Joanie knew they could see each other in the mirror behind the bar.
‘What about his arsehole?’ asked Blondie.
The wee guy’s face crumpled in disgust. ‘This is like one ay those dirty phone lines,’ he complained.
Joanie laughed. ‘At least this doesn’t cost ye a pound a minute,’ he said, winking at the wee man.
‘The arsehole,’ declared Blondie. ‘The arsehole is a temple of delights. Tickled, licked, fingered, fucked. My arsehole’s brought me so much pleasure. So much joy.’
The black guy raised his bottle. ‘Here’s to joy,’ he said, smiling.
Blondie raised his glass and downed the last of his beer. He ordered another.
The older guy left. Joanie saw him tucking the wank mag inside his coat, but guessed it wouldn’t stay dry for long. A couple who had been sitting through in the backroom came through and picked up some more beers. The two young dykes were holding hands. The rain ran down the windows.
‘So I suppose we’ve all to fuck ourselves to death is that it?’ queried the wee man, with venom.
‘What a way to go,’ said Blondie, laid-back in his lewdness. The black man smiled, conciliatory.
‘This may not be the easiest time to be gay, mate. But why give ourselves a hard time?’ Joanie nodded at the black man. He hadn’t seen enough black people on the Glasgow gay scene. It was no surprise. They’d had a cabaret singer in the backroom one night who made jokes about the sexual prowess of ‘nig-nogs’. The depressing thing was only two people had complained about her and one of them was Joanie himself. Joanie said her next booking should be by the police.
‘Everything’s sex,’ whined the wee man, raising an open hand in front of him, as if he were asking for his change.
‘If only,’ sighed Blondie. ‘You go to work and break your back, you come home, there’s crap on the news, you’re on your own, you need a thrill for fuck’s sake. Where’s the thrill in life? That’s what’s wrong with this country. There’s no joy.’
Joanie hadn’t known much joy himself lately. After his American beau had done a bunk he’d been unable to capture a feeling even close to love. It felt as if he couldn’t trust his own feelings anymore. He looked over at the moany-faced wee guy and thought he might have a point. Men, gay or straight, seemed more at ease talking about fucking than feelings.